


who you are is enough.

by thisandthisandthis



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Banter, Bisexual Elim Garak, Bisexual Julian Bashir, Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Mirror Universe (Star Trek), Not Canon Compliant, Trans Julian Bashir, im slow with updates pls dont kill me, mirror universe logic makes no sense but i am suspending the FUCK out of disbelief !!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22314277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisandthisandthis/pseuds/thisandthisandthis
Summary: the intendant has a plan to crush the terran rebellion on terok nor, and elim garak is instrumental in carrying it out. he travels to deep space nine to pose as his mirror counterpart. however, some things go awry where a certain julian bashir is involved. luckily, garak is a good actor, and he's no stranger to playing strange roles...(or)julian bashir gets drunk and does something he doesn’t mean to (but quite enjoys). garak responds well, and for a while, their relationship moves steadily ahead. but something doesn’t seem right about garak, and julian is becoming suspicious about their lack of communication...
Relationships: Elim Garak & Mirror Kira Nerys, Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir & Jadzia Dax, Julian Bashir & Miles O'Brien, Julian Bashir & Mirror Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Mirror Elim Garak & Mirror Kira Nerys
Comments: 44
Kudos: 63





	1. the tantalus field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MIRROR UNIVERSE. the intendant has a plan to kill the terran rebellion. she enlists help from her power-hungry second-in-command.

It began in a dark room. Silver, gray, and all shades of black. The architecture itself reeked of danger. Each wall and support column was grand in its harsh simplicity. The lights, fixed to the walls by thick metal braces, were dim, and the stagnant air was warm and humid. This was a place for the cold-blooded — for those with hard edges and rough angles and no tolerance for anything short of strict, uninterrupted order.

There was a woman here, but this room had not been built for her. She was slim and graceful and pale as a ghost. Sweat shone on her delicate brow in the discomfort of an atmosphere slightly too hot. Her clothing was grey as the walls surrounding her. However, as she shifted, silvery threads caught the light and glittered throughout the dark fabric, like the motion blurs of passing stars. This woman was lithe and glowing despite the beads of sweat dotting her skin. She was comfortable in control, ridged nose turned upwards towards anyone who would defy her. She was the Intendant Kira Nerys, who ruled Terok Nor with an iron fist and an absent heart.

By her side lounged a Terran woman and man, both scantily clad. They smiled blankly, seduction like a second skin blushing red in their lips. The Intendant had taken to calling them her “pleasure servants.” When she wanted food, they brought her the finest dishes on the station. When she wanted drink, they fetched her any vintage she could ask for. When she wanted sex, they let her use them for her pleasure, and they made the sweetest, prettiest picture. When she wanted repose, they lay by her side, giving her gentle massages and soft words of assurance. They brought her whatever she asked for, and in return, she granted them a life of safety and luxury. These Terrans had no connections — sentimental or otherwise — to the other members of their race. The Intendant quite liked these two. They were a breath of fresh air, as opposed to the brash, ill-bred Terran workers of Terok Nor.

The three figures were alone for the moment. The man was running his hand up and down the Intendant’s thigh. The woman had a pitcher of water by her elbow, and refilled the Intendant’s glass when she asked. It was quiet, and normal as this scene could be, except for one barely perceptible thing.

The Intendant was hatching a plan.

She had been contemplating the budding rebellion for a while now. Those pathetic Terrans, scrawny, insistent insects, had somehow managed to scrape together a group of rebels that had guts enough to defy the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance’s rule over Terok Nor. The Intendant had assumed that these reckless revolts would die as easily as their participants. She had been wrong.

If the Terrans were anything, they were persistent. The execution of their comrades no longer deterred them — in fact, it only seemed to make them more angry. The Intendant didn’t understand. She was accustomed to them cowering before fear like worshipers of a jealous god. But now she had a plan, and she’d be damned if it didn’t work. She had drawn up every possible scenario, every way in which it might go wrong, and she had come up with solutions. The Intendant was a meticulous woman. She wouldn’t let anything go unnoticed or ignored.

That was why she had chosen an agent for this mission who she knew would get the job done. Who she knew was ruthless and cunning, and would stop at nothing to crush the rebellion. He had, incidentally, tried to usurp the Intendant more than a few times, but that wasn’t really the point.

Dull footsteps came from outside the room. A tone sounded, and with a ghost of a smirk on her face, the Intendant called out to the man she knew was behind the door. “Come right in,” she said in a silky drawl that was known throughout the station. In some, it inspired fear. In others, simple recognition. She strove to increase the amount of people who referred to the former.

The doors slid open with an audible click, and stepping into the room was a Cardassian man who might have been unassuming if it weren’t for the dark, silvery armor he wore across his body. It was a contrast to the pale gray of his skin, thick and ridged, the matte scales forming an intricate pattern over his shoulders and face. His eyes were dark and conniving. His expression betrayed a serious curiosity, thinly veiled by apathy and an air of superiority. This was the Intendant’s second-in-command, Elim Garak. This was the man who would carry out her plan.

Garak’s head was occupied not by thoughts of the present meeting, but of the future. He wondered what task he would have to complete for the Intendant and if he could manipulate it to gain an advantage over her. He would never stop thirsting for power, and he embraced this fact. Terok Nor would be under his command one day. He didn’t care whose blood he needed to spill to get him there.

“Garak.” She smiled, and it was saccharine, fake.

“Intendant.” He smiled back, and it was almost real.

She brushed invisible dust off of her lap and shifted on her velvet pillows. “Darling, for the last time. Call me Nerys.”

Garak shot his superior a slightly irritated glance. “No offense, but I’m not sure we’re in that sort of arrangement.”

“Whatever you say.” Her eyes glimmered.

The half-dressed Terran woman lying beside the Intendant ran a hand up her silver-sleeved arm. She sent a lazy, sensual smile towards Garak, curling one manicured hand around the Intendant’s shoulder, and batted her lashes. Garak shifted and looked down.

“Oh, is something distracting you?” The Intendant smirked. “We can share her if you’d like.”

A false grin slashed across his face. “Though I’m sure she would enjoy that thoroughly, that’s not why I’m here, is it?”

“No, it’s not.” The Intendant sighed. “Garak, I’m going to send you away.”

He cocked his head slightly. Away missions were not usually assigned to high ranking officers, and him being the second-in-command of the very station, it was nothing short of unorthodox. “What for?” he said.

“Well, dear, you have extensive experience with the Obsidian Order, and though you’ve elected not to give me any specifics, I’m confident in the conclusion that you saw things you weren’t supposed to see and did things you weren’t supposed to do. I’ve heard rumors that you worked with Enabran Tain himself. Is that true?”

Garak was silent.

He was suddenly very aware of his body, the blue blood in his veins, the ridges on his neck that disappeared beneath his clothes. He was suddenly very aware of the fact that Tain was a part of him — he was exactly fifty percent that monster. Part of him hated it. Part of him knew that it was the only reason he’d gotten somewhere in life.

“Well,” the Intendant continued, “I assume that you are skilled in the fine art of espionage.”

“Correct,” Garak replied, coming back to himself. There was a note of pride in his voice.

Nodding, the Intendant pursed her painted lips. “I am entrusting you with an away mission. A far, far away mission.”

“What’s my assignment?”

The Intendant smirked. “Well, you know that the Terran rebellion is getting stronger by the day, and we need a more permanent solution to this problem. With help from my darling intel agents, I’ve come up with an idea — it’s risky, but with the right person to carry it out, I know it’ll be successful. And I believe that you are dedicated enough to make it work.”

Garak dipped his head slightly, a sly glint in his eye. “Whatever you need done, I will do.” Oh, yes. He was dedicated enough to do anything, especially when it could be used as a grab for power.

“There’s a love. The future of the empire depends on it.” The Intendant finally stood, making her way slowly across the room with hips swinging. “I need you to retrieve something for me. Something valuable and dangerous. And it must remain a secret,” she hissed into Garak’s ear. “Between you and me, alright?” Garak nodded. He chose not to remark on the curious ears of her pleasure servants, realizing that the stupid Terrans probably didn’t even know what the Intendant was going on about. This thought brought a wicked smile to his face. He ate up the meager feeling of power like a man starving.

“There’s something I need from far away. It’s gonna finally give us the strength we need to crush those filthy Terrans under our feet.”

“Do go on.” Garak watched from the corner of his eye as she paced the room, slim hands waving in excitement. Silver-gray clothing flashed in the artificial light. Star-bright hair, red as a Bajoran sunrise, framed her face like a strange, harsh halo.

“Darling, have you ever heard of the Tantalus Field?”

Garak stilled.

“I have,” he said, a fiery grin spreading across his face. “Yes, I have.”


	2. if his destiny be strange, it is also sublime [interlude]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PRIME UNIVERSE. our favorite dorks indulge in some food and flirting.

Bashir sat back in his chair, exhausted from eight hours in the infirmary. He needed a raktajino, or even better, some sleep.

A familiar voice floated down to his ears. “Good afternoon, my dear doctor.”

He brightened a bit, glancing up at the smiling gray face. “Hello, Garak.”

The Cardassian extended a hand. “You look like you need a drink,” he said, helping Bashir gently to his feet. “Why don’t we pay a visit to Quark’s?”

“Thank you,” he replied. “And yes, I’m in dire need of a raktajino and some lunch right now.”

“Good. I was hoping to discuss something with you.”

Concern showing on his brow, Bashir followed Garak quickly out the infirmary doors and stepped onto the promenade. “What is it?”

“What ever do you find so fascinating about Jules Verne?” A sly grin spreading across the Cardassian’s face.

“Oh, don’t get me started!” Bashir let out a huff of laughter as the two men made their way towards the bar. “Verne taught me my love of literature. His prose is excellent — straightforward, scientific, and still captivating.”

“I read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea like you recommended.” Garak ushered Bashir into Quark’s, holding open the door. “It was an interesting story, I must say, but much too...lengthy. I read for stories, not academic knowledge of Earth‘s aquatic life.”

Bashir pulled out a chair for Garak at nearby table. “The length is what gives it its charm, Garak. Would you rather read poetry?”

“I have no qualms with a long story! But for Verne’s subject, the drawn-out slowness seemed out of place.”

“But the pace of the book complements the plot — the plight of Aronnax, him being cooped up in the Nautilus for so long with nothing to do but think and observe! — you have to admit it feels right, doesn’t it?” Bashir toyed excitedly with the hem of his sleeve, caught up in conversation.

“You do have a point,” Garak conceded. “And I will say I admire that Nemo character. I like his flair.”

“You would.” Bashir smiled. “I did always like him, as a character. You know, aside from his affinity for murder.”

“I don’t know, doctor, I think that’s part of the appeal.”

“Oh shut up, you,” Bashir said, laughing into his fist. There was a mischievous glint in Garak’s eyes that betrayed the humor behind his words. Bashir didn’t know much about Garak’s past, but he certainly was good at guessing, and it had been obvious for a while that Garak was well acquainted with the darker side of Cardassian politics — if one could call it politics. Bashir has his suspicions about Garak and the Obsidian Order, but he had learned to stop asking about it. Once, Garak had let his haughty façade slip and a moment of guilt had shown through. It was then that Bashir realized — maybe Garak was so secretive because he was ashamed of his past.

He didn’t bring it up. He thought that Garak’s privacy was more important than his own curiosity. This idea of restraint, to be honest, was a first for Bashir — but living on Deep Space Nine was supposed to be all about firsts, wasn't it?

Garak was speaking. “...aside from that, Captain Nemo is well fleshed out, I think. He has many different sides to his personality, unlike the other characters. Think of the pearl diving scene.”

“That’s one of my favorite parts of the book,” Bashir said, a smile once again creeping onto his face. “And what was always special to me about Captain Nemo...well, I know it might seem a bit strange to you, from a Cardassian perspective and all, but there was the fact that he isn’t white.” He chewed thoughtfully. “During my lifetime, of course, there have hardly been any issues with racism on Earth. But Jules Verne wrote Twenty Thousand Leagues in the nineteenth century, when there were hardly any non-white characters at the forefront of literature at all. Verne explicitly wrote Nemo as the son of an Indian raja. It’s true that he’s the villain, and that could be seen as a coding issue, but like you said, his character is so complex.”

“He can hardly be called a villain, anyway. He’s a scientific genius trying to protect the world from his creations.”

Bashir’s face broke out into a smile. “Exactly!” His eyes were bright, and Garak was lost in their sun-gaze. He’d never admit that he enjoyed their agreements as much as their arguments.

“I always had an affinity for Ned Land,” the doctor continued.

“I see him in you,” Garak said, a laugh on his lips. “Adventurous, overeager, and impatient, yet undeniably charming.”

Bashir laughed and waved over a Ferengi waiter. “Don’t flatter me, Garak.”

The waiter took their orders quickly and scurried off towards the bar. Garak adjusted his tunic and shot Bashir a fond look.

“Though I find it surprising that you enjoy that book. It seems to clash with your personality.”

“How so?” Bashir rested his head on his hands, watching Garak’s mouth move. His thin lips exaggerated every syllable in the most captivating way.

“Well,” he started. “You’re very fast-paced. You don’t like to stop and look at the scenery much — you’re more of an action man. Aren’t you?”

“That’s true. But I guess I’m full of surprises,” Bashir replied. He smiled as the waiter placed a steaming raktajino in front of him. “Finally, something to scald my tongue on!” He waved a thank you to the waiter.

Garak watched him drink, amused. “Do you have any more suggestions for our little book club?”

“Do you?” Bashir asked. “I want to know what you read.”

Garak hesitated. “Have you read the works of Keske Adall?”

“I have not.”

“She was a Cardassian poet who lived a couple hundred years ago. Her collections are riveting.”

Bashir beamed. “So you do like poetry!”

“I enjoy it from time to time,” Garak huffed. “Anyway, her work isn’t about dried-up topics like love and heartbreak. She wrote about the nature of life. The innate goodness of living beings. Strange for a Cardassian, I know. But I feel you’d like it. She was ahead of her time — ahead of ours, too, if we are referring to Cardassians.”

“I’ll look that up,” Bashir said, smiling, and turned to see the waiter approaching with their lunches. They thanked him and began to eat, talking animatedly with their mouths full of food. Bashir adored their conversations and playful debates. The expressions on Garak’s intricate face energized him.

He downed his raktajino as if it was a very elixir of life and launched into another rattling speech about why simple prose is essential to literature. Garak viscously defended the Cardassian style of littering every sentence with flowery, unpronounceable words.

Oh, how Bashir loved this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise, this was 50% me indulging in garashir banter and 50% me indulging in my own undying love for jules verne :))


	3. the tantalus field, ctd.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MIRROR UNIVERSE. the intendant answers some questions. garak’s mission might be more difficult than he expected.

“The Tantalus Field, as you know, was used by Spock in his rise as the Terran emperor. No one quite knew how it worked, but it was lethal, and it made Spock virtually invincible.”

“But he failed, ultimately. The empire collapsed.”

“Only because of his miscalculations. In reforming the Empire, he weakened it, which allowed the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance to take control.” Garak watched the Intendant as her lips curled into a sneer. “Spock destroyed the Tantalus Field after he was done with it,” she continued. “Smart move, that. But I happen to know where it came from.”

“You’re going to create a new one?” Garak said, the plan unfolding before him. The Tantalus Field was the perfect weapon — it eliminated enemies without a trace. If the Intendant could get her hands on it, she could crush the Terran Rebellion in a matter of days.

“No, darling,” she drawled. “You are.”

“Am I retrieving blueprints?”

“You’re gonna do the next best thing,” she breathed, winking.

“Do you know who the inventor is?” At this point, Garak’s patience was running short. The Intendant had a penchant for vague responses that often got  
on Garak’s nerves, but he steeled his expression, glancing at her expectantly with an air of curiosity.

She let out a sly giggle. “Of course I know him, thanks to my intel. I have agents in places you couldn’t even dream of.”

“Who is it?” Garak snapped, sick of dancing around the answer, and the Intendant smiled. This was entertaining to her.

“A member of the First Federation named Balok created the Tantalus Field. Tiberius Kirk got his hands on it, smuggling it from Balok’s ship it onto the ISS Enterprise. But that...other Kirk, from the parallel universe inexplicably linked to ours, he stole it. He handed it over to Spock — the Spock of this timeline — and you know what happened next.”

“So you want me to find this Balok?” Garak closed his eyes, relishing the power in his words. He was going to smash the rebellion under his foot like it was a filthy insect. He was going to win this fight for his people, and he was finally getting the opportunity to seize the power he deserved.

“Yes,” the Intendant replied. “But there’s a small problem.”

Garak waited, mind racing.

“After Balok made first contact with the ISS Enterprise, Tiberius Kirk murdered him. He stuffed his corpse as a trophy, that clever, sick bastard. That’s presumably when he stole the Field. Balok has been dead for decades.”

His spirits sank. “I don’t intend to be rude,” he said, “but if that’s so, how do you expect me to complete my mission?”

“Mmmm, that’s the million-bar question, darling,” she said huskily. “I’m sending you off to Terok Nor.”

Garak paused, watching a smile creep over the Intendant’s face.

“The other Terok Nor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of what the intendant describes is mirror universe canon. god bless memory alpha


	4. a stranger in disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PRIME UNIVERSE. garak adjusts to playing a role. julian notices that something’s off, and he decides to fix it.

Watching the colored light of the wormhole stream onto the promenade, Bashir let out a long breath. Once again, he was exhausted from a long shift in the infirmary. Once again, like most days, he found himself tired but unable to relax. He needed a drink. Weary, Bashir walked towards Quark’s, glancing around the promenade for a friend. His eyes stalled over Garak’s shadowy figure. The Cardassian was lingering by the shops, examining the wares of some vendors. He lifted a roll of fabric, a thick dark indigo, and ran his hands over the design.

“Garak!” Bashir approached him with a tired smile.

Recognition registered on Garak’s face and he nodded. “Hello, er...Doctor.”

Bashir surveyed the vibrant fabrics on the vendor’s table. “Are you alright?” he asked, wondering about the somewhat lost look in his friend’s eyes.

Garak nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, I just...I’m a bit tired. Long day.”

“Would you like to grab a drink with me?”

Some masked form of surprise registered on Garak’s face. “That would be lovely,” he said, following Bashir into Quark’s. The pair took a seat at the bar.

“What can I get you boys?” Quark said.

“You like Saurian brandy?” Bashir asked Garak, who nodded. Quark filled two tall glasses with the thin blue liquid and slid them across the bar.

Bashir downed his in one gulp. “So,” he began. “Were you busy earlier?”

“Sorry?” Garak took a tentative sip of his drink.

“You didn’t show up to lunch. Usually I’m the one who bails,” he laughed.

Garak’s eyes fixed on the glowing brandy in his hand and he hesitated. “Oh — I apologize, then.”

Bashir gestured for a second drink. “Was there a lot of business today?”

“Quite a bit, yes,” his friend said distractedly. “It seems as if everyone on the station is tearing their clothes in the holosuite.”

Bashir laughed. Garak seemed to relax at this — so he smiled. He was a bit worried about his friend. The Cardassian seemed on edge, restless, but now he was relaxing. Bashir was good at reading people. He knew when something was wrong. So he vowed to loosen Garak up by the end of the night. To make him smile a little more.

“Have another drink,” he said, tipping back his second glass of brandy.


	5. steal me with a kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PRIME UNIVERSE. julian is a stupid, lovesick drunk. garak makes an assumption.

Garak was adjusting slowly to playing his alternate self. This universe was so strange — he was expected to get along with Terrans, to live as a simple civilian on Deep Space Nine — he had to play tailor, for God’s sake! It was grossly demeaning. In his timeline, he was the second in command to the Intendant herself — so close to absolute power — but here, oh, here, he had to rub shoulders with scrawny Starfleets, crammed onto a station that was far too cold and far to bright.

When Garak has accepted this mission from the Intendant, he had expected it to be easy. He had expected to adapt to his role with ease — he’d played much more difficult, much more foreign characters during his time in the Obsidian Order, anyway. And after all, how hard could it be to play himself?

For some reason, becoming this other Garak was strangely uncomfortable. This man who shared his name and identity, but whom he didn’t know. It was visceral and unnatural. What’s more, this other Garak seemed to have some sort of relationship with Doctor Bashir. He had yet to realize the exact nature of it, but at the moment, it seemed to be a close friendship, which the doctor struggled with advancing. He seemed to wish that Garak would be more open with him. That the two would break down some boundaries. If there was one thing Garak had in common with his strange Deep Space Nine counterpart, it was that they were both incredibly guarded. They both had wonderful walls built around their hearts that deterred anyone from getting too far in.

Now, however, Bashir was getting progressively more drunk and...handsy. His fingers ran up and down Garak’s arm and he played with a string on the Cardassian’s sleeve. Garak himself was loosening a bit dude to the Saurian brandy, but he was accustomed to a glass or two of kanar in the evenings, so it took something quite strong to get him inebriated.

The doctor was rambling in his ear about some old Earth film, adapted from a novel. Garak grunted and nodded in response, staring down into his empty glass. Quark shot him a sympathetic look. Garak decided that he liked the Ferengi, even if he was a bit pathetic.

“C’mon, Garak,” Bashir slurred. “It’s getting late an’ I have to work tomorrow...”

“Ready to leave whenever you are,” he replied, rolling his eyes. Luckily, to play this strange role, he didn’t have to shed his sarcasm.

Bashir stood shakily and grinned at Garak. The doctor placed a firm hand on the small of his back, guiding him out of the bar, occasionally bumping into his side. Alright. Perhaps these two were affectionate. Garak could deal with that.

He slid awkwardly his arm around Bashir and said, “You’re shaky. Let me help you.”

The doctor melted against his side, giggling, as Garak dragged him across the promenade. They made it to an empty corridor before Bashir slid out of his grip.

“Are these your quarters?” Garak asked, hoping the doctor would be out of his hair soon.

“No, they’re...down there,” he said, words slurring together. “Silly. You know that, silly.”

“Right, of course I do.” Garak made a show of smacking his forehead with one manicured hand. “Come on, now. It’s too late for this.”

“Too late...” Bashir echoed, eyes going unfocused. “Iss always too late. For me. I miss it all.”

Garak paused, wondering for a moment if this was something that Bashir expected him to know about. “What are you missing?” he said tentatively.

“God, everything!” The doctor’s expression was suddenly manic, urgent. He gripped Garak’s shoulder as a drowning man would a life preserver and locked eyes with the Cardassian. “What’m I doing? I’m...just waiting. Waiting for things to happen. Instead of going... and getting them.” His voice was slurred with dramatic, drunken worry, and Garak resisted the urge to sigh in exasperation. “Gotta start doing. Doing stuff,” Bashir said, his brow furrowed in determination. “Y’know, like you. Get what I want ‘nstead of just waiting for it.”

At this, Garak stifled a surprised laugh. This Garak, going out and “getting what he wants,” this pathetic excuse for a Cardassian? Never. He would have pitied Bashir for being so blind to this man’s cowardice if he hadn’t been so amused.

Garak decided that he’d have a little fun.

“Oh no, not like me. You’ve always been the brave one out of the two of us.” He smirked to himself. This scraggly Starfleet, brave? It made him want to laugh.

Bashir’s pupils went wide as he leaned towards Garak. “Y’think so?”

“Mhm. I’m really quite pitiful next to you, doctor.”

“I don’t think you’re pitiful.” Bashir frowned.

Garak quirked an eyebrow and sighed. This wasn’t as amusing as he thought it would be. “You need to get back to your quarters,” he said. “Work tomorrow.”

“‘Course,” Bashir muttered, but he stayed where he was, swaying slightly in place in front of Garak.

“Do I need to carry you?”

“Er..” Bashir grinned and fell suddenly against him. “Sure.” Garak stumbled backwards and hit the wall, the Terran’s lanky body spreading over his front. Bashir gave him a lazy grin. His fingers bunched in the gray fabric of Garak’s tunic, wandering over his chest. “Doctor...” Garak stiffened, wondering what in God’s name was going on.

Bashir‘s half-lidded eyes fell closed and he pressed his lips onto Garak’s.

The Cardassian stilled in surprise. Bashir was warm and soft against him; he could feel the Terran’s heart beating. Lips loose and messy, he shifted so his thigh slotted easily between Garak’s legs.

“Bashir,” Garak stuttered, pushing him away with a light touch. “You should get some sleep.”

“I should,” he slurred, smiling lopsidedly. He stumbled down the corridor and, without another word, disappeared into his quarters.

Garak stared. The relationship was, apparently, closer than he had realized. It made sense now. And come tomorrow, he would have to play along — to have lunch with this Terran and talk to him about mindless things and...kiss him. Again. Probably. This would make his assignment a little more complicated, but he would still succeed. It was just another role to play, after all.

Garak retreated to his quarters and began to outline his mission plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all, sorry about the wait on this one, i’ve been kind of busy. but this chapter is a bit longer (also... THE PLOT THICKENS) so i hope that it was worth the wait :)


	6. could it just be us, plain and simple?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PRIME UNIVERSE. julian tries to sort a few things out. garak plays a part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all, this is unrelated to the fic but i just want to tell you all to stay safe. im in america and the covid-19 pandemic is getting worse here. if you’re in a situation like mine, please do everything that you can to stop the virus from spreading even more. we can learn from what happened in china & italy and save lives. please take social distancing seriously and think of others who may be more vulnerable to the virus than you are. sending love <3

As Bashir sat up in bed, the light seemed to dance in his vision, bright spots that flashed with black. Of course he had a nasty hangover when he needed to get to work. He rubbed his eyes, confused, trying to recall the events of last night. Hazy impressions of memories came swimming slowly back to him. The brandy, Garak’s arm around his waist, the feeling of his lips...

Oh, fuck.

Bashir shifted to his feet, wincing as his head pounded, and shuffled over to the replicator for a glass of water. He could hardly wrap his mind around the fact that, drunk, he had actually kissed Garak — why? Why the hell would he do that?

The phrase “in vino, veritas” made itself known somewhere in the back of his addled brain. Bashir groaned out loud and downed his glass of water, feeling his skin grow hot with shame. He certainly hadn’t wanted to kiss Garak, had he? He didn’t mean to force himself onto his friend, or to make things uncomfortable, or to try to change their relationship. But in that case, why had he even thought of kissing Garak? And why did his stomach flip when he thought of it now?

Suddenly there was a buzz at his door, and Garak’s gentle, gracious voice from outside. “Julian?”

Bashir jumped, blushing even more deeply, his face an embarrassing reddish bronze. Could this get any stranger? He had no idea what to say to Garak. How to apologize. How to tell him that it was just a drunken mistake, to forget all about it. He walked slowly to the door, head pounding, unable to maintain a coherent train of thought and flooded with a dull, pulsing sense of anxiety.

The door slid open with a soft sound, and there was Garak. “Good morning,” the Cardassian said. He coughed quietly.

“Since when do you call me Julian?” Bashir mentally smacked himself. That’s what he came up with?

Garak looked down. “Er...since now.” His gaze cast about the room, and over the doctor’s face, before finally settling on a scratch in the doorframe.

Bashir bit his lip. “Garak, I’m sorry about, er, last night — I wasn’t myself. I really have no excuse for that.”

“I know,” Garak said. “You don’t usually get that drunk. It’s fine, though.”

“Huh?” Bashir’s thoughts stuttered to a halt, his brain functions practically fizzling out. Garak didn’t mind? Was Garak implying that he didn’t mind?

And suddenly, Garak kissed him. Bashir couldn’t help but melt into the touch. His lips were cool and firm but still were impossibly soft. Bashir liked it. He really, really liked it, but God help him, he wanted to talk things out first.

“Garak,” he said, breathless from just one chaste kiss. “I...”

“My apologies.” Garak smiled timidly. “I know you must be ’hung over’ — is that what Humans call it? — I can get you some medication, water, coffee...whatever you need.”

“Er...” Bashir was in a daze. “I think that I could use some coffee...”

The Cardassian smiled. “Of course. And perhaps you should take a cold shower first. I’ll wait, if you want me too.”

“Okay.”

So maybe Garak isn’t one to talk things out, Bashir thought. Maybe they wouldn’t need to discuss things. Maybe they’d just live with this new... thing, instead. Bashir kind of liked that. It felt somewhat refreshing — a kind of spontaneous peace that overshadowed his anxieties and worries. But hey, he just might take anything as long as the two of them would be alright.

Maybe even better than alright. His mind drifted to that kiss.

If his hung-over body hadn’t felt like a pot of stewed gagh with nerve endings, he probably would have been turned on. At least a little bit. But alas, Bashir was wrecked, and in his medical opinion he was going to have to sleep for another five hours before he could form a proper thought.

He stumbled into the sonic shower and leaned against the wall, a dazed smile on his face. It was even more dazzling now that he was sober — he could properly feel. And even though he felt like he needed to throw up from last night’s drinking, he still had butterflies.


	7. ten steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PRIME UNIVERSE. garak lays out, and reflects on, his plan. julian is none the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you all are staying safe & healthy <3
> 
> aaaand we are still in the prime universe!

Garak had read up on everything this universe and his own knew about the First Federation. He needed to find Balok, and the search was proving to be more difficult than he had thought.

He liked order, so he drew up an outline of his mission while doctor Bashir staggered away to shower. Step by step, he planned to do the following things:

  1. Gain access to the DS9 computer system, locate Balok
  2. Produce a viable excuse to leave the station on a runabout
  3. Capture Balok, get the information out of him (through whatever means necessary)
  4. Draw up blueprints for the Tantalus Field
  5. Retrieve the necessary materials through several different sources
  6. Kill Balok, dispose of the body
  7. Assemble the Tantalus Field
  8. Return to Terok Nor (the real one, not this pathetic, Starfleet-infested place)
  9. Return the other Garak to his own universe
  10. Present the Tantalus Field to the Intendant and proceed with her plan



Ten steps should be easy enough, no?

Huh.

It was an ambitious plan, surely, and fragile at best. If just one thing went wrong, it would all crumble around him. But Garak was determined to get this right. He was determined to finish the job so that the Intendant would trust him again. Once he gained that most valuable possession of her trust, not only with missions but with personal affairs as well, his power and influence would swell in ways he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Well, that’s untrue — he could imagine it. And that’s why he had so, so much hunger for it.

By the time Garak will be adjusted completely to playing this part, by the time he’ll be so in tune with his counterpart that no one will overanalyze strange behaviors, the plan would be polished and perfect. And nothing would slip out of his reach. He needed to do this, and so he would.

As of then, Garak knew that there were massive gaps in his planning. Plot holes. Not so much faulty logic as overlooked details. However, he was confident in his ability to connect the dots — that’s what he had been raised to do. To see things where others didn’t, to make a path where there wasn’t supposed to be one. He was a child of the Obsidian Order, destined to work in the areas of the clandestine and the strange. He had been taught to do the things that others didn’t have the stomach for. And God help him if he was going to deny his upbringing, his people.

Garak shifted on the couch. He slipped his pad into the pocket of his tunic before standing again, brushing dust off his lap. He could hear Bashir moving around in the next room. Garak was strangely calm — he had everything figured out now. He could play tailor. He could play coward. He could play boyfriend, too, with a little more effort. This character was becoming easier to adapt to.

Bashir emerged from the other room, dressed. He pinned his communicator to his chest and smiled brightly at Garak. “I’ll try this again,” he said. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Julian. Do you need anything?”

“Some water would be wonderful,” he said, a grin tugging at the edges of his lips as his eyes roamed across Garak’s face. “Thank you.”

“Thank the replicator,” Garak said, handing him a glass. The doctor chuckled.

“Still, it was kind of you to come this morning. I didn’t expect...”

Garak thought this would be a good time to take his hand.

“...er...” Bashir glanced down at their intertwined fingers, his cheeks reddening. “I didn’t expect you to...”

“It’s alright, Julian,” he said, putting on an expression that was soft and genuine — well, genuine looking. “I just wanted to check up on you.”

The doctor laughed nervously. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I have to open the shop now,” Garak said. “And you have a shift.” As he stood, he lifted Bashir’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. He thought that was a nice touch.

“Goodbye,” the doctor whispered, voice breaking. Garak smiled at him and swept out. This was going so, so well.


	8. a rock and a hard place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MIRROR UNIVERSE. finally, the garak we know & love. he’s not doing too well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait for this chapter <3 quarantine is doing a number on my motivation. i hope all of you lovely humans are staying safe & taking care of yourselves.

Garak woke up slowly, dull pain rolling like thunder through his body. His memory was dazed and muddy and he felt as though his head was stuffed with cotton.

He was naked on the cold floor. Legs bare and shivering embarrassingly. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he watched his chest rise and fall, willing his breathing to steady. His nakedness didn’t alarm his so much as his environment — he was on the floor of what seemed to be a holding cell. In an instant, he recognized it as Cardassian. It looked to be the same kind as the ones on Deep Space Nine — the same structure, same cold, dominant atmosphere. The architecture was unmistakable. This was all familiar, but yet Garak knew he wasn’t in a place that he’d been before.

Careful to remain silent — an instinct that had been wired into all of his actions since the Obsidian Order — he sat up, massaging his temples. The room wavered around him, going in and out of focus. Garak felt a sudden wave of nausea and an unpleasant hollow in his stomach. Had he been drugged? Had something gotten him sick? Or was this simply hunger gnawing at his insides?

What the hell was going on?

The last thing Garak remembered was his tailoring shop, dark. He was closing up for the day. Business had been slow and the promenade was mostly empty, so he decided to call it a night. There was a bottle of kanar in his quarters and he was eager to relax for the evening. Garak folded the garment that he had just finished mending and began to make his way towards the exit. Past the fitting rooms. Past the bare mannequins. Past the dresses. Past the —

What was that noise?

Probably just his imagination. Garak chuckled to himself. He was getting jumpy these days, wasn’t —

A sharp pinch at his shoulder. And then, nothing.

As his memories came back to him, Garak lifted a hand to feel the area. It was sore and tender, definitely from an injection of some sort. Intramuscular. A strong needle and a strong hand, to pierce through both his clothing and his thick Cardassian skin in one go.

Another wave of pain lanced across his skull. He winced, and slowly and silently, forced himself to stand. Aching joints. Feet bare on the dusty metal floor. Vision blurred in, out, in, out. Colors danced in front of his eyes and he blinked slowly, unsure if they were real — the room was spinning — who the hell did this to him? Once he regained his sense of balance, he walked the length of the cell, feeling the walls for any sort of hollow or weakness. There were no possible exits except for the locked door.

He felt so strangely exposed like this, his body bare, standing alone in a room otherwise empty. It was disconcerting to say the least.

He needed some semblance of control in this situation. Something to help him get out of there and figure out what was going on, as soon as possible. So naturally, Garak set himself to rewiring the door’s control pad. He pried the control panel cover from the wall using both hands, surprised at how loosely attached it seemed to be. Like the ones on Deep Space Nine, it didn’t require much effort to remove. He then examined the wires within. The design was undeniably Cardassian — undeniably the same as those of Deep Space Nine.

What the hell was going on here?

The more Garak studied the workings of the control panel, the more he realized that it was quite exactly the same as the models used back on the station. It was as if the same people who built the formerly titled Terok Nor had also built this craft. Garak shook his head. That didn’t mean anything, did it? It was just a coincidence of Cardassian architectural design.

Or maybe... _perhaps I am still on Deep Space Nine after all, and I just don’t realize it..._ no. Impossible. Even if there was a plausible explanation for him being drugged and subsequently imprisoned on the same station by God knows who, Garak knew in his gut that this wasn’t Deep Space Nine. There was a foreign quality to the atmosphere. The air was just a touch warmer here, as though the environmental controls had been set with Cardassians in mind. There was a quiet here. A stillness to the air, as if the very room was waiting for something with bated breath.

No, no. Deep Space Nine was familiar. This... this place sent a shiver down Garak’s spine.

It reminded him of home.

For a few tense seconds, he could do nothing but stare blankly at the open control panel, his mind flashing to memories of Cardassia Prime. Where everything was stark and military. Where everything was black and white. Where everything made sense.

He hated it. He missed it.

Garak shook himself out of his thoughts. This was not the time to be thinking of home — of a very loose definition of home, anyways. He needed to get himself out of here, before the walls closed in on him. He needed to figure out what was happening —

Footsteps. Just outside.

Shit.

Garak stilled as the sounds grew closer. He didn’t know what to expect. Romulans? Klingons? Maquis? Was he about to be spat upon and called “spoonhead,” or was he about to be murdered?

The door slid open with a soft noise, and Garak was face to face with three armed guards. Three armed guards who were very unmistakably Cardassian.

Oh, he was well and truly fucked, wasn’t he?


	9. the good news [interlude]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PRIME UNIVERSE. julian has some good news for his friends. so why does he feel so uneasy about the whole affair?

“Morning, doctor.”

“Good morning Jabara,” Bashir said through a grin. He gave his assistant a small wave and practically skipped into his office.

She cracked a grin. “Someone’s in a good mood. You look like you just won Dabo.”

“Better,” he said. “You won’t believe what just happened.”

Jabara raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.” She was never one to pass up gossip, Bashir knew, and was known to be a good listener. He often found himself confiding in her when work was slow.

He spun his chair to face her, a grin lighting up his face. He felt giddy and immortal. “Well, last night I was drunk and I may have said a few things to a certain friend...and I also may have kissed them.” He grinned sheepishly. “But this morning, well, they seemed to...feel the same way. Sober. I...” Bashir laughed incredulously. “I didn’t expect that.”

Jabara cracked a smile. “Oh, is it the Cardassian?”

He stilled. “Uhm.” An unfamiliar, awkward discomfort began to sink into his gut.

“Oh,” she hurried, “Doctor, please don’t worry yourself. Just because I’m Bajoran — I don’t hate all of them by default.”

“Okay.” Bashir smiled in apology, though still uneasy. “Yes, it’s. Uh, well. It’s Garak.”

“That’s wonderful.” She smiled gently at his blushing face. Though she’d never say it, she did find his nervousness endearing. “Garak is a good man, I can tell. Underneath that ridiculous front he puts up.”

“He is. He’s not a typical Cardassian, no matter how badly he wants people to think that he is,” Bashir murmured.

“That’s for sure.”

At that moment, the infirmary doors slid open and O’Brien stumbled in, sweat beading on his forehead. “Hey, Julian?” he panted. “Got a dermal regenerator on hand?”

“’Course. My God, what happened?” O’Brien grimaced and hauled himself onto one of the beds.

“Just a scrape,” he said, gritting his teeth.

There was a long, bloody cut spanning from his ankle to his knee. His pants were torn around it, pieces of the dark fabric caked into the wound. The skin around the edges was ragged and soaked in red.

“Just a scrape,” Bashir repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

“Got up early this morning to do repairs. One of those damn ladders in the Jefferies tubes broke while I was climbing down. An’ I fell right on the broken metal.” He shifted, and winced. “Didn’t think it’d be such a hard fall.”

Bashir procured his tools and started to clean out the wound. “Good thing you came here, I have to get all this out before we use the dermal regenerator.”

“Ah, do you really?” O’Brien grimaced. “Got something for me to bite down on?”

“Sorry, no to that.” Bashir began to clean his leg, as gently as possible. “But you know what, Miles, let me distract you. I’ll tell you something, as long as you keep it a secret.” Perhaps if he talked about it a bit more, the whole affair wouldn’t feel as strange. Bashir didn’t want to tiptoe around something so important to him as this.

“What’d you do now, Julian?” O’Brien gripped the side of the bed. Jabara smiled behind him.

“Well, I uh...may have. It’s, uhm. A thing...”

“Luck with the ladies?” he guessed, chuckling.

Bashir cleared his throat and grabbed a dermal regenerator. “With, uh, well. Uhm. With Garak. Actually.”

“Hm? You two — oh!” His friend gave a breathless laugh, delighted. “Oh, Julian, that’s great. That’s great. Didn’t even know you were, y’know, into him — or into men, for that matter.”

Bashir laughed uncomfortably. That feeling inside of him was begging him to stop talking, to keep this scary and lovely new thing private. He didn’t understand. He was happy, and so was Garak — why should he want to hide this? Why did he feel an awful churning in his gut when O’Brien questioned him? And why, for the love of God, was Bashir so vulnerable when it came to this goddamn Cardassian?

“I’m not sure how it’s going to go from here,” he resolved to say, finishing up with O’Brien’s wound. “Don’t exactly broadcast it to the station, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Of course, O’Brien proceeded to inform Keiko of the news, who may have let something slip to Kira, who couldn’t help but confide in Jadzia. And of course, Dax just couldn’t hide any gossip from Sisko. It poured out of Kira in Odo’s office, a bright smile on her face, a hushed voice to make sure no one else heard. They needed to protect Bashir’s privacy, after all.

So the secret circulated throughout the higher officers, in whispers and cheerful, congratulating glances. Bashir knew it was only a matter of time before someone mentioned it over a drink and Quark would have a new piece of gossip to sell.

Bashir still felt a strange unease about the whole affair. He wanted, with all that he was, to be comfortable talking about this new relationship like he had been with his past partners. But something was stopping him — something unidentifiable and maddening. He needed to loosen up. He needed to let himself breathe for once. He needed to stop demanding answers in the form of facts and figures, and instead, be aright with what he was getting.

Garak didn’t want to discuss things, and that was okay. The two of them would make this work in their own manner, and that was okay. They were going to sort through feelings and figure this out in time, and that was okay.

That was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gods i hope that i can stay focused on this fic, lately the quarantine brain isn’t cooperating lol. wish me luck


	10. a rock and a hard place, ctd.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MIRROR UNIVERSE. garak is stuck, stuck, stuck. no one had told him just how familiar the mirror universe was going to be...

“...He’s gotten up. Already.”

“She said he’d be a fighter.”

“We all know the Gul. This one can’t be much different, anyways.”

The tallest of the three guards, a stocky, dark-eyed man with neck ridges that could cut through steel, looked Garak thoroughly up and down. Garak swallowed imperceptibly and willed his hands to stop sweating. He wasn’t intimidated easily, but the way this man stared did something chilling to his insides.

“Are you going to continue talking about me as if I’m not right here,” he said with a false air of nonchalance, “or will you tell me what exactly I am doing in this Cardassian hellhole?”

The guard let out a barking laugh, like a dog’s. “He says that as though he’s not Cardassian himself.” His eyes once again surveyed Garak’s figure, who was suddenly very aware of his acute lack of clothing.

“What’s your rank?” One of the guards spat, a smile like a hyena tugging at his thin, grayish lips.

Garak cleared his throat. “Oh, I believe you have the wrong man. I am just a simple tailor.”

That laugh again. It rang throughout the room, piercing his ears like knives. The voice was sharp and reeked of cockiness. “Aha, boys, she was right! He’s really just _pathetic_ , isn’t he?”

The guards laughed their ugly, grating laughs, and Garak began to see that he was not in any immediate danger. The phasers strapped to their belts were, for the time, being ignored by their owners. Assured of temporary safety, Garak started to wonder who was this woman that they spoke of. And why did they speak of Garak as though they already knew him, in a way? None of this made sense. He needed to know where he was, and then everything would come together.

“Well, if I’m so _pathetic_ ,” Garak said, a sarcastic sing-song quality creeping dangerously into his voice, “is there any particular reason I’m here?”

“Hm, not so much,” the third guard said. “Might have you do some odd jobs while you’re around, though. That’d please the Intendant.” They erupted into laughter once more, doubling over as if Garak’s very existence was the height of comedy.

And then, Garak’s blood ran cold.

The Intendant?

Within the span of a split second, Garak came to the crushing realization of where he was and why he was there.

He had heard of the Intendant before, in whispers and “borrowed” files, in furtive bursts of information from Bashir who just couldn’t keep something so interesting to himself. The Intendant was a military leader. A dictator. She didn’t rule with an iron fist — no, she ruled with a quiet, manipulative hand that would slip a blade against your neck when you were least expecting it. She was a fascist terror who worked with the Klingon-Cardassian alliance to squash her dissidents, the people of Earth.

But most importantly, the Intendant was not of Garak’s universe.

An icy sense of dread wormed its way into Garak’s chest as the Cardassian guards laughed and laughed. He knew only vague informations about the Intendant. And it was all but confirmed, here, that he had been kidnapped by her soldiers and taken into the mirror universe. Garak wanted to tell himself that the reason why was a mystery. But there was only one probable cause for why they would want him, of all people. Of all the people on Deep Space Nine. Why bring him to Terok Nor?

A swap had taken place. And something deep inside Garak told him that his counterpart wasn’t going to be detected as a fake for a long, long time.

“Give him some clothes. The Intendant wants to see him at oh-three-hundred hours.”

One of the guards tossed a few rumpled garments to the floor at Garak’s feet. “Get dressed, tailor. Quick. The Intendant doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Fisting the clothing in his hands, Garak turned away from the guards and burned with anger and shame. To make Garak dress in front of them was a deliberate act of power. He slipped into the clothing as fast as possible — gray pants and a gray top with a squared neckline — and turned back to face the guards. He was silent. Bare feet on the cool floor, he approached them, an expectant look on his face.

“Eager, are we?” a guard mumbled with a gross smirk. Garak resisted the urge to slap him across the face.

“The Intendant isn’t fond of waiting, you said so yourself,” he responded with a cheeky smile. At last, the guards motioned for him to step out of the holding cell and follow them. The nearest to him grabbed for his wrist and jerked him along like a dog on a leash.

He was dragged through a maze of grey hallways, all the same. Klingon and Cardassian guards passed. They stared eagerly at Garak — he felt like an animal in a cage. Some sort of oddity. Once they had arrived at a large, fortified set of double doors flanked by two armed Klingons, the guards stopped. The one holding Garak’s arm nodded to the Klingons and finally eased his iron grip. Garak loosened a bit, trying to appear as in control as one could while being escorted by prison guards, as the doors slid smoothly open.

Now, Garak had known that the Intendant was powerful. He had known that she was cunning. He had known that she was vicious and hostile and crafty and smart. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared him for what he saw in that room.

It seemed as though the rock and the hard place had come together to conspire against him.

The woman who stood in front of him, smiling like she had just won the intergalactic lottery, was none other than Kira Nerys. And if Kira had ever allowed one of her plans to fail, well, it had certainly not come to Garak’s attention, and evidently not to the attention of her regime either. She was unmatched even in Garak’s own universe. A force of nature, hardened by the harshness of the Occupation and shaped by years in the rebellion.

Gods, could this situation get any worse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *narrator voice* yes, yes it could.
> 
> btw if yall see my name change in the notes,, im just trans and indecisive ok lmao


	11. access code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PRIME UNIVERSE. garak has a plan to get the information he needs. even if it means capitalizing off of his lovesick “boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just looked at my kudos count & im blown away that i could make so many people smile with this fic! i am so glad that you all are enjoying it <3

While living this strange, false life, Garak noticed one thing almost right away — Julian Bashir was about as easy to read as a dim tricorder screen in the Cardassian sun.

Their interactions were at first strange and stilted. The doctor was on edge and jumpy to Garak’s touch. He assumed it was the stress of Bashir’s job; certainly there was a plethora of responsibilities for him to tend to every day. But when Garak asked him about it, in a gentle voice over dinner, he simply flushed and said, “This is just... new.”

Garak smiled softly and untangled his fingers from Bashir’s. It was new? Perhaps these two were not very affectionate, then. He figured that he would air on the side of caution, not initiate anything too... well, romantic. That would be easier to deal with, anyways. There would be more time for him to focus on his mission.

“Slower, then,” Garak had said.

“Okay,” Bashir had replied, glancing shyly at Garak through his lashes, and he took a sip of wine.

Garak thought that he was doing exceptionally well so far. At first, he didn’t have a clue how to go about accessing Starfleet level files in the Deep Space Nine computer system in order to begin his mission, but now that he had this convenient little relationship with Doctor Bashir, it would be so much more easy. Garak thought himself a clever bastard for what he had come up with. It was times like these when he patted himself on the back, praising the intersection of his own good planning and sheer dumb luck.

Today, Bashir had invited Garak to have lunch in his quarters. It was the perfect opportunity to do some poking around into things that generally should not be poked around in by the likes of him. What Cardassian in their right mind would pass up that chance?

He arrived exactly on time, pressing the buzzer on Bashir’s door with a sly smirk on his face. The door slid open with a soft whoosh. “Good afternoon, Garak.” Bashir beamed and motioned Garak inside. “I’ve, uhm, well I’ve prepared lunch already, I hope you don’t mind. You did say that you were fond of Human foods. Or — that was a while ago — have your tastes changed? I know ‘Human’ is quite a broad category — God, I didn’t think this through, did I? I hope you like mullah robe. I, well, I tried to make it from scratch.” Bashir smiled. “Oh, you’ll love it. I know you will.” His face was flushed red-bronze and Garak swore that he could hear the fast beat of Bashir’s heart. He seemed so flustered, and yet so perfectly at ease around Garak at the same time. This man was a walking contradiction. Intriguing in his awkward, boyish charm.

Garak did indeed love the stew. “It really reminds me of my childhood,” Bashir said a bit wistfully. “The good memories of Earth. My... my father would always make it from scratch, too. We cooked together sometimes. It was nice. One of the only nice things.”

“...Your relationship wasn’t good?”

“No, most definitely not... especially not now. He and my mother have come to the station before — I don’t think you met them, though. They’re. Well.” He set his spoon down and exhaled. “We have disagreements.”

Garak nodded. He was smart enough to realize that Bashir didn’t want to elaborate. “The stew is just lovely,” he said instead, and Bashir smiled once more. He was obviously very proud of himself for doing justice to the recipe.

As they finished their meal, with Bashir going on and on about whatever came to his mind, Garak’s thoughts kept wandering back to his mission. He had a precarious plan for accessing the necessary files and if he wanted it to work, he’d have to get to work very, very soon. He set down his spoon and leaned back in his chair, checking the clock across the room. Bashir had about fifteen minutes until his next shift in the infirmary. So, now. Now was the time.

Bashir noticed his glance. “Oh, I should be getting ready for my next shift,” he said, and stood, empty plate in hand. “This was lovely. I do hope you enjoyed my cooking.” He laughed quietly.

“I most certainly did,” said Garak with a soft smile. He reached out a hand. “Give me that, I’ll take care of the dishes. You go get changed.”

“Thank you, Garak.” As he passed, he placed a tentative hand on Garak’s shoulder and squeezed affectionately. Once the bedroom door had slid shut with a quiet noise, Garak was finally alone.

He rushed the dishes to the replicator and didn’t stay to watch them disappear. “Computer,” he hissed from between his teeth as he booted up a control panel on the wall nearby, “mute all functions.”

MUTED, said the panel screen.

“Access all files related to the First Federation.”

ALL FILES RELATED TO THE FIRST FEDERATION ARE AVAILABLE ONLY TO LEVEL 2+ PERSONNEL, said the screen.

Julian Bashir had level 3 access. The computer would require his personal access code, with voice authentication — so, in order to access the files, Garak needed to get the doctor to say the code. Luckily he knew exactly what to do. He fingered the recording device in his pocket and smiled.

At first, he had thought to simply record Bashir saying his access code when the opportunity arose. But he promptly remembered that the computer system on Terok Nor — and by extension, on Deep Space Nine — was too sophisticated to fall for a trick like that. Its voiceprint analysis was too thorough. The code needed to be given live. So Garak resolved to use another method, although it was a bit tricky and over the top. Over the top was what Garak always did. It’s what he liked to do.

And he couldn’t very well just ask someone to open up the First Federation files for him. Everyone on this damn station thought he was a spy. If he was caught, well, they might realize that they weren’t wrong.

STATE YOUR PERSONAL ACCESS CODE, said the screen. The words blinked, waiting.

“Lock request,” Garak hissed.

At this, the computer would ignore anything other than the access code, or an _unlock_ command.

Bashir emerged from his room. “Well, I’ve got a few minutes to kill before I need to leave,” he said. He was wearing that stupid Starfleet uniform and fixing his hair.

“Dear Julian,” Garak started, smiling, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor before you go.”

The doctor’s face went soft at the endearment. “What is it?”

“I’ve been meaning to... well, it’s a bit embarrassing. I want to be able to access Starfleet’s records of the Bajoran Occupation, but they’re under level 2 clearance. You see, in a very non-Cardassian sort of fashion, I’ve begun to feel awfully guilty about the fact that I haven’t yet made myself familiar with what Resistance records there are, especially the firsthand accounts —“

“Garak!” Bashir’s eyes were wide. “That’s. Well. A bit out of character for you.” But a grin was creeping onto his face.

“Oh come now, Julian. I just want some reading material,” he replied with a smile.

“I know you opposed the occupation. Of course you did, you’re a good man at heart. But I didn’t know you... well, felt so strongly about it.” The corners of his eyes crinkled up, and he looked like a man desperately in love.

Bashir’s reaction was exactly as he predicted. He was happily surprised and distracted. The doctor wasn’t really thinking about any possible ulterior motives to Garak’s request, if the way his eyes were sparkling with affection was any tell.

In his pocket, Garak’s finger was poised on the _play_ button of the recording device.

“Computer, access all files written and recorded by by Bajoran resistance fighters during the occupation. Access code Bashir one alpha.”

“Accessing files,” said the recording device.

Behind Garak, the screen blinked silently, responding to the access code. It filled with information about the First Federation.

“Alright. Send them to Garak’s quarters.“

“Files sent to Elim Garak’s quarters,” said the recording device. The screen behind Garak said the same thing.

Mission accomplished — his plan was officially in motion, now that he had the resources to begin. “Thank you,” he said to Bashir, reaching a discreet hand behind him to clear the panel screen. “Thank you for doing that for me, Julian.”

“No problem,” the doctor said, stepping toward Garak and pressing a small kiss to his lips. “I’d better get to the infirmary now.”

“Until tomorrow,” Garak replied. Bashir showed him out, and smiled at him one last time before they went their separate ways.

Head high, Garak made his way back to his own quarters, and relaxed with the realization that he had gotten the information that he needed. The panel screen by his door said this: DR. JULIAN BASHIR HAS SENT YOU EIGHT (8) FILES.

Eight files on the First Federation. On Balok. On wherever he might be right now. And on, with some making of deductions and drawing of conclusions, where to find him.

Garak couldn’t wait to rip those blueprints from him and leave this universe in the dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really hope that this little trick of garak’s makes sense. it’s hard writing a character who’s smarter than you and having to come up with their sneaky little plans hahahdhdhbd :,)))


	12. but begging disagrees with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MIRROR UNIVERSE. the intendant meets a simple tailor, and her world shifts. things might not end the way she planned, now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this chapter title is from “under the table” by fiona apple, the full lyric is “i would beg to disagree but begging disagrees with me” and i thought it was Very Fitting for the dynamic between garak & the intendant :)

“So, this is the man of the hour, hmm?” The Intendant had draped herself across the divan in the center of the room, and her limbs were like liquid mercury. She was relaxed here, in charge.

Garak couldn’t help but cast a disapproving glance towards her attire. It looked a lot less than comfortable — metallic and fitted, along with a thin headpiece that shimmered like foil in the light. Her body was lean and lithe and she was glaring with bright eyes like a cat’s — evidently trying her best to be intimidating.

And by Gods, it was working. “Get it together,” Garak hissed to himself as the guards pushed him into the room.

“Elim Garak,” the Intendant said slowly, inspecting him from head to toe with an expression of slightly amused appraisal. “I’ve been just dying to meet you.”

“And am I as good as you dreamed I’d be?” Garak gave her a cheeky smile. He felt naked, exposed. The only thing he had left was his wit and his sarcasm and Gods help him if he wasn’t going to wield those things like a shield.

Kira grinned. “Oh, even _better,_ darling. I think I’m going to like you.” She sat up slowly, taking her time, crossing her legs and resting her chin on the flat of her hand. “Can we have some privacy, please?”

The guards behind Garak filed out in silence, and suddenly, they were alone.

“So, you’re...” The Intendant examined him again, her expression fascinated and unnerving. “You’re the other one.” Strangely, out of sight and earshot of her guards, she seemed to relax into herself. As though she was at last allowed the space to think. Garak was a master of reading facial expressions and he knew that this woman was glad to see her guards go. She loved power, lusted after it and worshipped it, but still it squeezed at her from all sides, the ever-present knowledge that hierarchy and stability could be as fragile as brittle bones.

Garak didn’t speak.

“If you are anything like him, you’d have figured out what’s going on by now.” She raised an eyebrow as if in challenge.

“I would like to think that I’m nothing like him.”

“Oh, and what do you know about him, then?” She smirked, and Garak wanted very suddenly and violently to lunge forward and strangle her.

“He’s a Cardassian and he works for you. That’s all I need to know.”

The Intendant was taken aback. “You really must hate yourself, _Elim,_ ” she hissed, “to say something like that. You think so low of your own race? Cardassians are a smart people, smarter than any I have ever met. There’s a reason this alliance thrives. Intelligence is worth nothing if you’re too afraid to use it. In this universe, we take pride in what we are capable of. Kindness only blunts the spear of progress.”

“I would rather be stupid than complicit,” Garak spat. “You disgust me. Your regime disgusts me. This Cardassia disgusts me.”

Kira sat in silence for a long moment. Until slowly, she began to smile.

“I do like you.” She paused. “I think that you will learn to like me, too. A shame, really, because after all this is over, you’ll still have to forget.”

“Forget?”

Garak’s blood managed to run even colder than usual. Him being a reptile and all.

“Well, when _my_ Garak comes back, I can’t just... return you to sender with all memories intact, can I? Prophets, that would be sloppy. You’ll need a bit of a reworking up here.” She tapped her temple with one manicured finger. “It’s not ideal, but it’ll do. I’ve been thinking it through. We’ll stage an accident — head trauma, you know. Your Terran doctors will write it off as amnesia. Clever, aren’t I?”

Garak’s stomach dropped to his feet, heavy and acidic. He suddenly wanted very desperately to sit down, close his eyes, and pretend none of this was happening.

He was a goddamn coward, wasn’t he?

“As if they won’t find it suspicious,” Garak said, glaring at the Intendant and trying very hard to gather himself. “The Federation knows all about this universe. All about you. I’d bet good latinum on the fact that my counterpart isn’t selling his role at all over there — you don’t know what you’ve gotten into.”

She was silent again. Lips twitching ever so slightly, eyes burning into Garak’s. For a few endless moments she simply watched him.

“You’re so unlike him,” she said at last, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “And yet exactly the same.”

Garak didn’t dare to speak as she stood slowly and paced towards him.

“You know how to think for yourself. That’s what got you into exile, isn’t it?” He flinched involuntarily. “Oh, yes, that’s a sore spot,” she drawled. “But you don’t regret a thing, do you? You only feel sorry for the people who couldn’t understand what you did. Why you did it. It was a conscious choice, I can tell. I don’t know what you did, Elim Garak, but it was bad enough to get you banned from your own homeworld, and that’s not an accident. You’re too smart to make a mistake like that. You _chose_ to do it. And you _knew_ the consequences.”

She was close enough to him, now, that he felt her hot breath against his skin.

“That’s why I admire you. You aren’t motivated by power. You answer to no one. You’re... you’re _him,_ but without the greed, and without the desperation. You are the type of person who sees the value in a common goal. You don’t chase after power like a dog.”

With that, the Intendant paused and stepped back.

“You’re better than him.”

And she blinked once, folded her arms, and left.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments and kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> em hotep xx
> 
> \- peach ([more fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisandthisandthis/works) // [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/ezrisbian))


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